Glamourama

My alarm clock tells me that I have been snoozing it for far too long already. I could only blame the past night’s YouTube marathon of telenovelas. I reached the atelier much later than Jill, which rarely happens. She usually arrives 15 to 30 minutes later than myself, barging through the glass doors with an expression-less face, traipsing across the atelier in her high heels like time didn’t matter. I guess it can be considered as one of our job’s perks. There are no strict rules on attendance, no cards to punch in or ID’s to scan.

“We have another casting today,” Jill reminds in her naturally soft, husky voice. “Cindy will be joining us later.”

“Cindy?”

“Oh yeah, you haven’t met her yet. She doesn’t come here often. Cindy helps us with the Marketing…”

At that point I started to tidy up the fitting room which includes hiding away the ten pairs of stilettos inside the white Ikea plastic box, and wiping the huge mirror with crumpled newspaper. I remember how our drafter once taught me that technique of cleaning the mirror, explaining how the “oils” from the paper would do wonders. Either she thought I was too naïve, or that she is just eager to practice her English-speaking skills -- which I admire by the way.

I regained my composure after the arm muscle-tightening chore of wiping our two ginormous mirrors up and down, left and right. Sheer vanity justifies how I am deeply bothered by the possibility of my right biceps being more noticeable than my left, but that’s another story. While waiting for the models to trickle in, I headed straight towards the body-form where a client’s wedding gown that I have been working on for days is performing rather well under pressure. There it quietly stands shimmering under the halogens, unperturbed by the oxymoronic orderly chaos that is evident in its surroundings. I couldn’t almost recognize the white receiving table where copies of our monthly subscriptions of Harper’s Bazaar and Her World Magazine are strewn together with several Sophie Hallette lace fabric samples and cups upon cups of crystal beads and sequins. It might not look too appealing but often inspiration sprouts from such disarray.

Comparing this wedding gown to Gaudi’s La Sagrada Familia masterpiece is unfair yet inevitable. Because seriously, it looks like it is never going to be finished. Every time I grab the thread, I imagine the sequins jumping out to the needle on its own and sewing itself up onto the lace bodice. If only it is as simple as ⌘+enter.

The models started to arrive like giraffes being drawn to trees, calculated yet keen. I am getting used to the sight of such live mannequins with their flawless skin sans makeup. Casting is so much fun. It’s like playing dress up with life-sized Barbie dolls. With a wide-eyed wonder of a child and a Tyra Banks perspective, I entertain myself by assessing them in my mind. Hmm, she looks sophisticated but walks like one shoe is coming off… This one looks awkward in a cheongsam… That one is Gisele Bundchen in the making, beautiful glide… She is kinda fleshy for this gown, maybe she’d look better with the other cut… That girl’s walk is fluid, but her attitude annoys me…

Final casting, check. A cyclone must have hit our atelier as tranquility has temporarily made its exit. What a mess! The items which the models used for the casting were scattered inside the fitting room. Gowns were randomly slumped over the rack without using the hangers. Stilettos were carelessly thrown wherever convenient. The wooden seats were disarranged, some blocking the entrance. And the models’ comp cards cover the entire table like a deck of playing cards waiting to be shuffled. But just when Jill and I thought that the storm is over, another one comes in. And she is charging with click-clocking heels towards Jill.

“What happened here?”

“Oh, hi Cindy, we had a casting...” Jill explains.

“What?! You had a casting without The Designer?!”

“Uhm, The Designer couldn’t make it on time and he texted me to say that we can proceed…”

“Can I see the models’ comp cards… We have to finalize this already. What about the agency, I told you to call them up, right?  Where are the gowns? Is the lineup complete already? I have to see the gowns so I can get matching jewelries later…”

Meow… This one is fierce. I almost forgot that the assessment game is over and this one is not part of casting anymore. I tried to avert her gaze, mindful of her ire, as she glances over me once every few blinks. It felt as if she’s raring to ask me Who the hell…?

Jill, cleverly noticing this as her way out, exclaimed “…Uhm… ok… By the way this is Pat, our new designer… Pat this is Cindy…”

For a moment there I felt how Jill wanted to press the eject button and vanish into oblivion. If I were in her shoes I might have felt the same. Cindy’s commanding presence complements her high-pitched voice that pierces through the air the way an old typewriter would. Only that hers echoes in a peculiar Singlish manner, rendering it undecipherable by my still unaccustomed ears. Yet her aura tells me that she is not as fierce as I initially thought. It’s just something in her that sends a positive vibe that it is just about work, nothing personal.

Cindy left as soon as we have presented to her the collection. But just like a real storm, this one has left a casualty. Jill looked me in the eye and said, “That. Is. Cindy. She’s quite a bitch, right?” It is one of those questions that I find the hardest to respond to. I just took a heavy sigh and stared at the gown on the mannequin. The fashion show is a few days away, leaving most of us simmering in tension, excitement and much agitation. Alamak! Who says fashion is all about glamour anyway?  

*as usual, names were changed to protect their privacy

Inception

It must be every young girl’s fantasy to tackle something that is pretty, sparkling, fluffy and lace-y. The sweet romance that this fairy tale gown evokes simply makes my nimble hands tremble in delight as I begin to embellish it one 3-centimeter sized sequin at a time. My left forefinger sweats in excitement every time it picks up a sequin or two from the cup, transferring it onto the needle on my right hand that’s eagerly anticipating.

Ella Fitzgerald’s trademark jazz reverberates across the atelier which makes my humming to her lyrics inevitable. It is during such moments at daytime that I get to focus intently on this therapeutic process that is hand-sewing. I can do this all day. For what can be more ideal than participating in your own dreams and fantasies with full consciousness? As the wedding gown that I am working on lies submissively on the table, I am beginning to infer that there is one thing that can make this living-my-dream declaration even more rewarding. Wearing a self-made wedding gown to my own wedding, what else! Preposterous Idea Alert… Preposterous Idea Alert…

Thankfully, I poked my thumb at the right moment. Still in denial that I am unconsciously getting better in my Singlish, I muttered a heartfelt “Aiyohhh!” Suddenly I am awakened from my own dream within a dream state. It is at this point that The Designer noticed me and casually remarked “You’re so skinny… you don’t eat much?” I know it sounds a bit unrealistic to retort how much of a meat-eater and carbs-gobbler I am. And that I find trying to put on weight more difficult than, say, being constrained in a medieval corset all week. But having been asked countless times by different individuals, my honest auto-response answer would always be along that line.

He approached me from behind to check on my progress. He bent down to scrutinize how I have been treating the delicate tulle so far. “Wrong already…” he calmly declared. Somehow I wasn’t surprised and I knew that my amateur skills needed tough love. Caught up in the thrill of sewing on transparent sequins onto the designs, I didn’t realize that the thread is no longer neatly hidden among the embroidered lace flowers. It is one of those things that I would like to be considered as a vital mistake in the sense that experiencing it would and should lead to the furthering of one’s own passion. And an haute couture house wouldn’t be classified as such if not for the careful attention to detail, among other criteria.

It is romantic and ethereal. Yet the wedding gown is far from finished and lots of work still needs to be done. The hundreds of man-hours that are being devoted to this piece of art would culminate in the wedding day where the key ingredients of blood, sweat and blood stains tears will be aptly rewarded. But until that day comes, Rumplestiltskin’s elves shall continue to toil. Nonetheless, the premises of our atelier almost always make me feel that the world is at standstill. That whatever beauty or glamour I am surrounded with shall remain as such. That everything remains calm and orderly, permanently inspiring like that Fitzgerald serenade. But I might again be dreaming within a dream.

My housemate reminded me that our main tenant’s lease is expiring in a few days and we will eventually start looking for a new flat. We are lucky that good friend Angel allowed us to rent her room for a month until we found a more proper place. Marie and I will be waking up to the quaint streets of Tiong Poh once again. A dream-catcher is in order.  

100 Words

Who decides? A patient lies motionless on a long operating table, seemingly sedated by the halogen lights that dot the ceiling. The skin is off-white pale, its texture decidedly delicate. I bent down to examine its entirety, my fingers gently lifting it before quickly putting it back with a fervent gasp. I stepped back with my left hand over my chest and my cupped right hand over my gaping mouth. My prognosis: DOA. Divine On Arrival. Someone else’s fate will soon be changed by this wedding gown. But who decides?

“Once upon a time” starts here. That’s all I know.  

(100 Words is inspired by some of my favorite bloggers’ theme of a blog with just a hundred words.)

You Live, You Learn

One of the amazing pretexts of independence is self-exploration. Sometimes you just have to learn things on your own and discover how good or bad you are at certain things. But it’s only amazing if the spirit is as willing as the flesh.

Going home to an empty dinner table after a day’s work is a common scenario. Cooking for myself is easy. Every ingredient that I toss in just seems right, every procedure perfect. I can cut the vegetables however I prefer, be it julienned, diced or simply halved, no matter if such vegetables are not meant to be cut that way. But cooking for someone else can be far more exhausting than the 9-hour job itself. Just like tonight. Is it the right amount of garlic? Will they like how I marinated the chicken in calamansi (a smaller local version of lemon) and soya sauce? Does it look appetizing enough? This is probably the reason why I pat myself on the back every time my housemates don’t notice anything strange about the food. I’m so glad that my cooking skills now merit a remark succinctly put as edible. Read: human-friendly.

I am reminded of how my former Spanish language instructor taught the phrase Mas o Menos, which literally means “more or less,” referring to something that is just fine or good enough. I like the way she casually enunciates the slithering “s” with that essential gush of air in between the two front teeth. I studied the language for the same reason that I got motivated to learn how to cook: for my resumé self-enrichment.

No, I do not maintain a list of 100 things to do before I die. Aside from the fact that I find that quite self-indulgent, failure to accomplish certain tasks might only lead to unnecessary self-deprecation. But trying to learn things as your viscera dictate, on the other hand, fuels you with a certain energy that is fulfilling in itself. Sometimes I allow myself to be surprised by circumstances all too often that I do not get the desired outcome. I guess that is part of the learning process. Striving to achieve that balance of planning and letting things be is something that I am constantly figuring out.

Nanay rushed to the kitchen to check on my progress. She took an aluminum ladle and tasted the sauce straight from the wok. “Add a little more vinegar,” she said, “Then simmer for about 5 more minutes and then you’re done.” The queen of the kitchen has spoken and her verdict almost made me chuckle out of relief. I am just hoping that when she said that I’m “done” she meant “done with the task” and not “done with my dear life.” Over. Finished. Kaput!

As I was wondering what’s for dessert, our pseudo-cooking lesson 101 was slightly interrupted by Ray who was smoking by the window. “You must watch out later for the pair of teens making out over there,” pointing towards the opposite block’s brightly lit 6^th floor staircase. “They do it past midnight,” Ray revealed as if he’s a regular “moviegoer”. Indeed, anybody can easily be spotted in that column especially amidst the dark surroundings. Two nights later, I chanced upon the suspects seated together on the stairs. Despite the light rain, everything was clear from my vantage point save for their faces. They cuddle and huddle as I fill my glass with cold water from the fridge. But after 5 minutes of inaction on their part and perversion on mine, I decided to go back to sleep. So much for exploration.

It’s been raining in the wee hours of the morning for the past week and I prefer to slumber in indifference under the sheets. It is during these times that I wish someone else would take back my laundry away from the open drying area. The cold air-conditoned room temperature only worsens this laziness to which I easily give in. I am realizing how inspiring it is to start a chore yet very challenging and inconvenient to commit to it. In the mornings I couldn’t anymore just leave my empty mug of milk in the sink no matter how late I am for work. Nor could I ask my clothes to iron themselves out. If only I could only make the frozen meat instantly thaw every time I get back home. Or teach the plates to clean themselves up after every meal. That would be fantastic. The advent of technology doesn’t help much either. And I don’t even want to mention cleaning the bathroom. Ugh!

In bed, I usually end up snoozing my alarm clock more than necessary nowadays. I glance at the time on my cellphone and see 8:00am. I couldn’t accept how every second that I close my eyes thereafter translates to 10 minutes or so. Contrary to when I’m at work where what seems to be minutes of staring blankly at the window is actually just a few seconds of idleness.

I guess there are simply good days and not-so-good days. Pay days are always good days even if they only come once a month. It is a source of sheer joy for a lot of reasons. To pay the bills, the rent, the groceries, and what-nots. It is pathetic to imagine how someone so single as myself whines about the attributes of being independent, when George who supports his wife and their child Angelita, as well as their parents Nanay & Tatay, seem all too cool about everything in life. I am tempted to raise my hand, visualize a bar staff and order, “I am having whatever he’s having!”

Perhaps Ellen’s naughty adage “When life throws you lemons, make a lemonade” applies here. I’ll just have to make the most of every situation that comes my way and learn from them. And I guess knowing how to properly slice a calamansi is not a bad start.  

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Models On The Go

I almost gave in to a lingering temptation to entitle this day’s blog as Models To-Go, but I considered that as just an obvious slip of my Freudian id.  Besides, having your favorite model as a takeaway dessert might not be a source of good nutritional value.

But if the 80’s calendar girl is your idea of a model, then a debate of who’s where in the food pyramid might ensue. Not that I’m into girls. {pukes for a moment then recovers in haste} During our pre-teen years, my cousins and I would always visit our grandparents’ house in summertime. Often I would catch my male cousins huddling in front of our cool grandfather’s latest calendar, usually blushing in hardly contained giggles. The calendar of course shows more than just the days of the month and the dates of the rising tides. I guess those images of voluptuous girls – usually shot amidst the coconut trees -- plastered at the back of the door served as my first glimpse into the world of the models.

Such nostalgia distracts me sometimes like the way a whiff of cigarette smoke causes my nose to twitch in disagreement upon recognition. But somehow the direction of today’s wind keeps going my way as Jill tries to puff her cigarette away from my face. We are standing right outside our building, trying to avoid the sun under the generously extended eaves. I try to pay attention to her equally soft voice as she orients me on the day’s schedule. It is my first day at work, and every mental bullet-point note must be precisely organized. I am so excited that we are having a models’ casting today. In between her huff ‘n puffs my anxiety builds up, not only because of the mere mention of male Pan-Am models but also because we are standing not too far from the No Smoking sign. And in this “city of fines”, ignorance is definitely not an excuse.

On our way back to the atelier at the second floor, I could not forget how my jaw dropped at the sight of what seemed like an epitome of prince charming. He emerged from the glass door, his manly stance forming up a stark silhouette against the intensely illuminated interior. He walks closer. By now every aspect of his angelic, pore-less face and well-toned physique is edible visible. His looks alone is enough to stop us in our tracks. Pheromones must have quickly escaped from his contagious smile that is somewhere between sly and coy. He is here for the casting, and obviously one of the early worms. He asked us for directions on where the nearest restroom is, which Jill gladly pointed him out to. By then his charm has already captivated my senses in complete surrender. It is not too pleasant to see someone ogling at a hot guy, consciously or otherwise. But my seemingly out-of body experience made me see myself standing with side-tilted head, floating right foot and in an awkward spine-less posture, smitten and tongue-tied. His wavy black hair makes me want to stroke it with my hands against his porcelain-white flawless face. And I could not even begin to describe how his eyes are like deep wells that pique your sanity all too effortlessly.

If I am to survive this dilemma of being swamped with gorgeous guys for the entire duration of my job, I may have to try my best to maintain my composure. It’s tough, I know. There’s a fine line between losing control and losing my mind. Perhaps drooling is their symptom. As soon as the guy walked away, Jill leaned over and whispered something like “He’s cute… if I am into guys I think I’ll like him.” I think I know what she was trying to say, but with the numbing euphoria that the guy has caused, my mind failed to register her reaction at that moment.

Five minutes after entering the atelier, models started to trickle in. The casting is for an upcoming fashion show that will highlight wedding and evening gowns. Our task is to select twelve female models and one male model to complete the roster. This sad ratio all the more makes me want to scream “I love my job!” every time a hot male model walks in. Surprisingly, male models came in earlier than the females. The male model that we encountered earlier is first on our list. He walks up to the long white table where Jill and I are seated behind, introduces himself and hands over his portfolio. If only that handshake can be frozen in time…

I am overwhelmed to see the international brands that he has modeled for -- Dolce & Gabbana, Armani, among others. Each and every picture in his portfolio depicts a different side of his beauty much like a true blue chameleon of a model. Simply divine! These models were flown in from all over the fashion world by their respective agencies pretty much like how online-purchased Louboutins are delivered. The part that I like the most is the casual interview where they eagerly respond to questions like “Where are you from?”, “How long have you been modeling?”, and my favorite “Do you have a tattoo?”, after which the model gamely shows its location. Some have one on their biceps, while some near their chiseled abs. It is during such circumstances that I find myself dying more than once, only to be quickly resuscitated by their naughty smirk. Jill then shows me how it’s done as she requests the model to don one of the suits that hangs by the rack. A casting or go-see wouldn’t be complete without the standard snapshot behind a raised paper on which the model’s name is written. And for this task I’m glad that I’m the one behind the lens capturing beautiful faces. The model then walks across the atelier, strutting in his most dapper form.

A few more models arrive, bare-faced and rugged yet not even a tiny bit less beautiful. Equally captivating are the females whose mile-long legs, ET-like waistlines and elongated necks all seem to defy my earlier notions of the human anatomy. Even with my tall figure, I still feel extremely dwarfed by their height especially once they start wearing 4-inch stilettos. Their faces look perfect from every angle. I can almost feel their sharp cheekbones slicing up whatever they come into contact with. Once they converge inside the dressing room, it is like holding a cocktail party for the United Nations. Some of them are Brazilians and Russians, while most are a mixture of two to three different races. The small space that is just enough for two brides in big wedding gowns is now being occupied by not less than five skinny models at any given time. They seem so used to this that they spend this moment in an intriguing tête-à-tête where someone else might easily misconstrue it as a cacophonic prattle.

                                                              Typical scene at our atelier during casting

And as I help one slip into a gown, the others are in various stages of undress leaving nothing but a tiny dental floss of a thong. With each pearl button that I fasten, the conservative Asian in me prompts me to quicken my pace before they all catch a cold. It once again brings to mind the 80’s calendar girls imagery in their naked glory, only this time the body proportions have shrunken considerably.

For them this is just another day. They will be off to another casting after this while the burden of selection will eventually dawn upon us. I imagine how heart-breaking it must be to eliminate someone. I have seen lots of beautiful people and there’s still more to come. After all, this is just day one.

Now, if I can only have the guys who will not make it as my ta-paw*...   

*ta-paw : takeaway (Mandarin)

Online Community

I would like to thank the moderators of Kablogs Journal for inviting me to share a blog in their site.  You can read my piece here. Please do check them out as they feature lots of interesting themed stories every month, both in English and in Filipino.

The Age of Innocence

In the same vein that some good things come in small packages, sometimes we also come across instances which remind us that not everything that needs to be learned in life is taught in school. A lot of the things that we know are a synthesis of knowledge both from books and from daily experiences that start from the day that we learned how to prod mommy to buy us a toy.

I am quite unsure whether it’s the weird resemblance of purple Barney and McDonald’s Grimace that I find more revolting. Perhaps it’s the songs that the former sings to most nearly hypnotized kids such as the 6-year-old Angelita who already seems to represent an exaggerated free-spirit. She speaks like an outspoken fifteen-year-old minus the rebellious snide remarks. There are no traces of gibberish in her enunciation of words as she asks questions like a paparazzo without malice. Sometimes it is amusing just to listen to how she and her grandmother converse. She just seems wiser beyond her years. If you would close your eyes and imagine Angelita’s voice to be a few pitches lower, you wouldn’t think she is how old she is.  

Dora the Explorer is her idea of a style icon. From the fringe that frames her face to the pink-colored outfit down to the cute mini rucksack, everything is Dorafied. She never fails to sit in front of the TV screen to watch her idol while playing with her dolls and her miniature cooking set. It’s cool that kids nowadays are given more options on which cartoons to watch and which characters to impersonate. When I was her age Barbie reigned supreme and no one else dared to steal her spotlight. The Cabbage Patch Kids and the troops of Polly Pocket are simply runners-up to the throne. But even then I always tend to like those not so much in the mainstream such as the fat and orange cat named Garfield who I love to repeatedly draw. But times have indeed changed. Now there’s Spongebob, the Disney Princesses, Backyardigans, the kids of Twilight, and oh another Garfield in Spiderman. (Okay maybe not all of that are suitable for 6-year-olds.)  

But what I find adorable with Angelita beneath all the Dora ensemble is her insatiable curiosity. It’s a genuine naiveté that even some grown-ups try to emulate. Her emotions are always honest and unedited. She may be irritatingly naughty bordering on bratty at times, but I guess that comes with the whole package. Sometimes I wonder what will happen if all adults retain the same pure simplicity of emotions, without having to weigh one’s thoughts or resort to mind games.

As I muster enough wits to ask her why she likes to cook clothespins as her main dish, I realized that it’s time to go to the wet market. RC flew in all the way from Kuala Lumpur to visit his girlfriend Marie. Nanay and I figured that one of the best ways to show him how life is like in reality is through a shopping trip at the nearby wet market. With Marie at work in the city and myself not yet officially starting, I willingly obliged to be the tour guide for the day. Actually, this is also my first time to visit the local wet market. Since Marie and I arrived in Singapore, it’s been a no-brainer that we always head out to any air-conditioned grocery shop nearby which is usually Fairprice.

Back when my height was just an inch taller than the standard sink, my mom would take me with her to our neighborhood wet market. One of the local sellers would shout out “suki!” (loyal patron) at the sight of her slender frame. I can barely see how the old lady’s fingers maneuver the slimy Milkfish as she takes out its innards. Every item on her sink was drenched in water and no one can deny the distinct smell of raw seafood. She would then put everything inside a plastic bag, swiftly twisting and knotting it in a carefully choreographed dexterity that is coupled with a quick glance towards my curious eyes. I just didn’t like that she never used gloves, handling money and fish alternately. As soon as we reached home, I remember imitating the whole scenario on my mom’s bed, with socks and pillowcases as my goods. I don’t remember using clothespins though.

Crates upon crates of unwashed potatoes, turnips, ginger and a myriad of other root crops welcomed RC and myself upon reaching the nearby wet market. Their rough texture is so inviting that I couldn’t help but caress them as we pass by. Dried mud slowly crack and fall off along with some splinters of twigs. Pek Chye, Kang Kong, Spinach and other leafy vegetables cover another aisle like a verdant foliage. While the bright red bell peppers, plump tomatoes and crooked horseradishes add luminosity to one corner of this roofed open-air arena that is insufficiently lit by the ten o’clock sun. We slowly walked towards the meat section, cautiously avoiding the wet floor where I am quite certain that I saw a struggling shrimp or two. A stall sign on one side reads “Halal” where chicken and veal are sold. In this multi-cultural city-state, this term is a crucial information for customers especially to those of the Muslim faith.

By the time that we finished, our hands were already swollen from the weight of our baskets. But whatever minor discomfort that we experienced was immediately refreshed by the impressive talent of this youngster at the payment counter. As soon as we put down our baskets in front of him, he started to shout out the price of every individual item as if he had memorized the price of everything in the market. There were no price stickers to look at nor any list to guide him with. No tabulating machines either. The rapid pace of dumping a week’s worth of goods into plastic bags culminated with his calculator-like revelation of the total price, which was only given a nod of approval by one of the market custodians. People within the area simply broke out into manic laughter. But the weird part is that I think they laughed at us for being so astonished at what was apparently just a regular occurrence in this side of town. I really wish I have captured that moment and posted it on YouTube.

For a moment I was tempted to mumble the thought that was running through my head, which goes along the lines of “Who are you people?!” But gladly I didn’t. Long after Bill Cosby had proclaimed that kids say (or do) the darndest things, I realized that it feels good to be entertained by kids for a change. Sometimes their sheer candor in itself can be a source of joy even for the most jaded of souls. Their lives are bereft of any complications, their wants more trivial than vital. And when things don’t turn out as planned, Angelita can always rely on her cuddly Elmo stuffed toy, press its belly and hear its contagious giggle. And that tickles.  

Not an Ordinary Day

It is almost 6:00pm and I am once again entrusting my punctuality to my now heavily earmarked map guide pocketbook. The sun only begins to set by 7:00pm in Singapore and somehow this afternoon’s rays make me more giddy than usual. The thought of the sun stealthily escaping the skies by the back door as the moon sneaks in makes me wonder if this day will end just like any other. By now my heart is doing skip-rope inside my flat chest. After all, I have an interview to catch.

For a moment it feels as though I am rushing for a go-see, portfolio in hand, frantically searching for the correct building along Stamford Road. The glass windows of every shop that I pass by give me a blurry reflection of my deteriorating poise and quickening pace. I always felt that I am fresher and livelier in the mornings which is why this unusual call-time only makes me extra conscious.

Finally I reached the building, entering its main threshold facing the road junction. The dark and unruffled interiors are a stark contrast to the intensely bright and animated city life outside. It is almost bare. The high ceiling that are lit up by the seemingly antediluvian brass lamps breathes a distinct air of enigma that I only get whenever I step inside a colonial house-turned-museum. The wooden cornices and doorways are like the dark chocolate complement to the cream concrete walls. As I try to remember which floor I am supposed to be in, I almost imagined a cigarette-toting Marlene Dietrich walking across the hall in an all-black ensemble, plumes and all, mingling with her entourage of dapper guys dressed like mafia and girls dressed to the nines.

But I got distracted by the escalator in the middle which reminds me that I am in the 21^st Century, and that it’s time to hop on to it. The second floor gradually reveals itself as I slowly rise from below, extending my neck left and right like a mother hen in search of her chicks. The overall yellow lighting adds drama to the dim corners that partially cloaks some narrow passageways leading to who knows where. The building’s dark and solid balusters emphasize the old world charm while the echo that every step on its polished wooden flooring creates calls attention to its classical grandeur. I keep reminding myself that I am not here to check out an art gallery or a specialty store that runs the gamut from elaborate picture frames to fancy doilies, although they are both present here. But I am here to undergo an interview and I am looking for the atelier.

“Where oh where is that atelier…” I asked myself in a hush-li’l-baby modulation, trying to shake off any bottled up nervousness.

Even before I finished convincing myself that I correctly pronounced the word atelier, there it stood, gleaming like a vintage Van Cleef & Arpels bling. This is it. Inhale… exhale. Every moment felt surreal from then on. There’s no other way to enter but thru the floor-to-ceiling glass double door that is framed in heavy wood. As I slowly pushed it open, holding its tarnished brass handle with clammy hands, excitement soon overcame the nerves. It’s the same feeling that you get whenever you receive a present where you can’t wait to open it and see what’s inside. The only difference is that this one has its price tag written all over it.

A young and slim lady approached me as she was trying to hang back an obviously glamorous dress onto one of the racks. “Hi, how can I help you?” she plainly asked. I told her that I came for an interview with The Boss. She then asked me to settle in for the meantime while I wait. But the gorgeous ivory gowns are so captivating that my eyes kept wandering from one gown to the next. They line the walls as if they are radiant marching brides in single file. Before I sat down, I gently caressed the wedding gown on one of the mannequins. The delicate fabric looked so pristine, and the beadwork so intricate that I couldn’t help but ask myself: How much could this be? When will I ever get to wear such? As soon as I sat down, a smartly dressed guy, tall, tan and slim, sat down and introduced himself. He is The Designer. But even before we finished the customary personal background shtick, he introduced me to his assistant Jill, the lady who first approached me. Looking like what seems to be an ordinarily busy day, Jill briefly asks The Designer’s approval on the correct shade of fabric to order as she shows him the swatches. I can sense a split-second crucial-decision-making-moment for them as they both look at the limited selection of greens. And while this is happening, I myself am also having my own split-second moment that flashes back the “cerulean” predicament that the iconic Miranda Priestley had which proved to be an embarrassment for poor “Emily”. Fortunately, theirs was blue and ours is green. And luckily I know the difference between emerald and chartreuse. Ha! Plus, I also know when not to chuckle. Not that it matters now.

Jill went off and The Boss arrived in a rhythm that the sun and the moon will eventually mimic. The proper interview commenced with the completion of the triumvirate: The Boss, The Designer, and myself. “How do you find Singapore?” they asked. To which I quipped “Clean!” without batting an eyelash. The questions that followed range from the hackneyed “Describe your previous job” to the more technical “How much is the estimate cost for a similar embroidery?” referring to the blouse that I was wearing. It was a rather fast-paced and straightforward interview that didn’t give me time to think of how to embellish my words or edit my thoughts. The verdict has not yet sunk in even after they dropped hints to my favour. They have a forthcoming fashion show and added help is crucial. Knowing that my papers will take time to process therefore I could not yet officially start work, I volunteered to work as an intern at least for the next two weeks leading to their big event. Talk about hard selling.

Perhaps it is a potent combination of desperation, passion and optimism that always come into play whenever I find myself on the verge of taking some calculated risks. Besides, there’s nothing further to lose once you have already lost a lot, be it time, money or opportunity. 

I think I threw a smile to the guard at the ground floor as I make my way out of the building. Somehow everything looks brighter than they actually are. And although the moon has already chased away the sun as it always does, tonight’s velvet skies tell me that the day is not going to end just like any other. Past the traffic lights, I crossed the street knowing that everything will be green-and-go from here. And that also makes me feel giddier than usual.